


Eleutheria

by Dicax_Asina



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, More tags to be added, Multi, Reader knows abt medicine, arthur is a blushy boi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicax_Asina/pseuds/Dicax_Asina
Summary: ❝ eleutheria - n. lat. FREEDOM ❞A collection of oneshots with the cowboy we've all grown to love.Currently not accepting prompts.





	1. rules & info

Hello and welcome! I decided to make this oneshot book to get a breath of fresh air in my writing, since I feel like it has started to become quite bland lately, but also because I wanted to interact with you guys.

Once upon a time (around this time last year) I used to take requests on wattpad, but it had quickly grown to be overwhelming for me, so I decided to put up some ground rules this time. Don't worry, it's nothing too fancy.

How requests work for me

I won't write out every single prompt/request I'm given — only the ones that speak to me, or spark a concept, if that makes any sense. If I don't complete the suggestion you sent, don't fret! It absolutely doesn't mean it was bad or anything of the sort — just that I didn't feel cut out for the job.

How you can let me know what you have in mind

• on my tumblr! Just look for the username dicax-asina, and you’ll find me. Easy peasy. Anon is also available for those of you who are shy!

I will NOT do:  
•pedophilia/underage  
•incest  
•non-con/rape  
•bestiality/zoophilia

Now that that's all settled, request away!


	2. to good health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you realize that having expertise in medicine comes with benefits you wouldn't normally expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by the lovely aimeerosebud on tumblr, who said:
> 
> "Hey! I have a prompt for an ArthurxReader fic that I have been wanting to write myself for my own original character and him for a while but damn, where's the willpower lmao? So.. I'm shuffling it onto you instead! What about sort of of Doctor! Reader (or at least Reader with some knowledge within the medical field) having to patch Arthur up after something went bonkers and a shootout ensued? They can be either friends, acquaintances or lovers. Reader is probably bonking his head either way."

When you work, it’s always quick, steady and impeccable — or at least has been until now. Stitching wounds shut comes as easily as breathing to you, that testifies just how often and for how long you've been doing it. 

But then again, not even breathing comes easily when you're around Arthur Morgan, that damned outlaw — he renders you stupid, and the person you were before, someone that has undergone medicinal training since they've turned fourteen, remains forgotten.

He was the last one to show up to get patched up, and had patiently waited beside the medical caravan until you were done with Strauss, John and Dutch. 

Perhaps that was one of the reasons you had grown a liking to him. How considerate and willing he was to put others before himself.

Now he sits on the table, shirt discarded, muscular thighs spread to allow you closer to him, unfortunately however for no other reason than the wound on his upper torso. A bullet has grazed the flesh where his shoulder meets his neck, which would've surely made for an impressive scar if you hadn't been working on stitching it shut that very moment.

"Strauss mentioned something about Leviticus Cornwall?" You speak up, mainly because you start to dread the awkward silence between Arthur and yourself. He shifts on the table when you examine a clumsy stitch you've made closer. He almost seems nervous. "It was the guy whose train you robbed back in Ambarino, that so?"

Arthur swallows (from the slight sting pain caused by your needle, you presume), then nods. "Yeah. They sure raised some hell back in Valentine, alright." He lifts the rag he'd been pressing to his waist, where another bullet had grazed him, nods at it like he's showing you undeniable proof. Well, he kind of is, you suppose. But you're far too distracted to acknowledge it.

Don't look, you tell yourself. Don't look at the perfect, defined muscles on his torso, don't you dare look at how his chest rises and falls as he breathes, at how the candles on the table throw gorgeous shadows over his skin.

But you do, anyways.

Arthur Morgan the personification of power, hell, anatomy books on muscles should use him as a reference.

You focus back on the stitch. About halfway done, though it's not your proudest work, maybe even a bit clumsy. But you digress, it still does its job of stopping the bleeding splendidly, and it's not like you can start anew. Arthur doesn't seem to be in too much pain either, though you haven't mustered the courage to look at his face in quite a while.

"How did it happen?"

Arthur draws in a sharp, frustrated breath before he speaks. "Dunno. One second I was drinkin' with Dutch, and the next, that man shows up and starts actin' all high n' mighty while his friends hold John n' Strauss at gunpoint. I got John outta there n' then the whole town was against us."

"You got lucky." You say. It sounds more aggressive than intended, but Arthur doesn't argue with your logic. You finish off the stitch with a simple but sturdy knot.

"Yeah, we uh...I reckon we deserved it." He admits, almost sadly. You finally dare to glance at his face and notice him staring off, mind drifting to places you cannot hope to reach. He does it quite often, you've noticed. The habit comes from a bad place — it often goes hand in hand with ruthless self-criticism and deprecation. Arthur looks so lost that he doesn't notice you unscrew the bottle of rubbing alcohol and pour some out on a rag. "Was 'bout time we paid for all we did to that Cornwa- augh shi—" He flinches away from you when you press the rag to his injury.

"Sorry, I should've warned you." You say, tracing your thumb over the unscathed skin beside the injury, more out of habit than plain will to do so. Most of the time, it works in soothing whoever it is you're working on, but Arthur only seems to tense, so you stop. "You okay, Arthur? I didn't mean to hurt ya."

"No, yeah, just surprised me is all. It don't hurt." He answers flatly. You're about to feel disheartened by the fact that your touch seems to cause him unease when Arthur looks at you with a crooked, lazy grin, then gestures at his injuries with his free hand. "Save for these two, o' course."

"Don't worry, there'll be only two small scars left, if any at all." You return the smile. His expression fades into one of surprise and something else, something you can't quite decipher. "I'm quite the doctor." 

"Good. Got just 'bout enough o' them ugly scars as it is, don't need more."

All is silent as you wrap a bandage around his shoulder, then tap his arm with which he holds another rag pressed to his second injury.

"I think scars are nice." You blurt out, then feel inclined to take a swig from the rubbing alcohol the next second and just shut yourself up for good. "I-In general, I mean."

"Ain't that unusual for a doctor." Arthur states with a smile that eases the tension from you — it suddenly feels like you've said nothing wrong at all. "N' why's that?"

"I just...don't know. They tell a story, I guess. And they set you apart, too." You'd think a person that's memorized books worth of anatomy has better sentence constructing skills that a ten year old. Unfortunately that doesn't seem to be the case with you

"You got a nice way o' lookin' at things, miss—"

"(Y/n)." You say before he can complete the sentence. "Just (y/n)."

Arthur smiles, genuinely, without any undertone of sadness, smugness, or anything in-between. 

Your gazes connect, you can't help but get lost in his. It's not the color that makes it so special, you conclude (though it's not like it leaves much to wish for, anyways), but the raw emotion you can pick up on. It's hidden, expertly so. It makes you wonder if his eyes truly are always that expressive and you just haven't bothered to have a closer look at what's below the stone-faced surface. In the low candle light, Arthur Morgan seems far softer than he could ever care to admit, much less show. You feel special to witness it all.

The personification of raw power can be delicate after all.

You blink to reogranize your thoughts. The other injury, the one on his side, still needs to be taken care of.

Arthur clears his throat awkwardly when your eyes skim over his torso, down his neck, down his chest, down the plain of his abdomen, to his waist, right side. God, if he had any idea how fucking gorgeous he was.

"Sorry." He says, and you raise a brow. When he still won't explain himself, you hum both questioningly and encouragingly. "I ain't much to look at." He concludes, gestures at himself. 

You beg to differ, you truly fo. But you can't say that without making the atmosphere any more awkward than it has to be, so you decide to go down the neutral path. "I'm not here to ogle you, mister Morgan." You don't think you've ever lied quite this blatantly—

"Arthur." He corrects, using the same tone you had just a few minutes prior. "Just Arthur."

Blood still trickles down to his hipbone from the gash, it must be deeper than the one on his shoulder.

Arthur holds up his arm to allow you better access. As strangely attractive as the position is, you realize it can't possibly be comfortable to hold for longer than three minutes. So you gingerly grab his wrist and tuck his arm behind his back, bent at the elbow, then give him a smile that has him glad he's sitting down — Arthur's knees would have probably given in otherwise.

When you kneel down beside him, your breath ever so gently fanning his abdomen, he knows he's a goner. Nothing more and nothing less.

You're rather lost in your own world all of a sudden: focused on making this stitch your magnum opus. The want to prove your competence has suddenly stricken you. You've patched up other gang members in the short two months you've been around, sure, but this is only the second time with Arthur. You're keen to show him you're not useless, and that you're a master of your handiwork.

Arthur is silent, but you feel him staring down at you every now and then, gaze heavy and intense lingering on you. But you're never brave enough to meet it with your own. Not until you hear his breath stutter when he inhales, that is.

Only then do your eyes flick upwards, searching for an explanation, half-afraid that you've caused whatever it was that made a shiver crawl up his spine. And you are — but not in the bad sense you're half-suspecting.

His complexion has caught color, it's visible even in the candle light. 

It fills you with confidence.

You're finished with the stitch, it looks like it was taken straight out of a textbook. With a self-satisfied smile, you rise back to your feet, then disinfect that injury as well, but give Arthur a fair warning beforehand. 

As he dabs the cloth over the closed wound, you walk over to where he's discarded his shirt when you'd started. You drape it over his shoulders, and Arthur slips his arms inside once he sets the rag aside.

Before he has time to react, you begin buttoning up his shirt, starting at the very bottom. You work deftly, which you have to thank years of medical training for, the collar of his shirt is reached before he can say anything.

The material is soft against your fingers. He's leaned forward to accommodate you, and now, when you tilt your head up, Arthur's nose grazes yours. His breathing mimics the beat of a fast-paced song, the skin of his neck is hot to the touch. You would know, especially after you trail your fingertips over his taut collarbone, up to his jaw.

Power incarnate is capable of affection.

You find that out in the best way possible, when his lips graze yours, chapped but careful.

You pull back before either of you can get too lost in the feeling. Arthur looks almost disappointed, so you cup his jaw and smirk.

"I'd like to take a look at those injuries again tomorrow, after you get some rest." You lean forward just enough to catch his bottom lip between yours. Before Arthur can hope to familiarize himself with the electrifying feeling, you retreat, and he's left tingling all over. "Bandages should be changed once a day, after all."

Arthur's expression shifts from uncertainty to one that mirrors yours within seconds. 

"I oughta get injured more often."


	3. final goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you realize that not looking back is a very difficult promise to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by the wonderful ohmycottonsocks on wattpad, who said:  
hmmmm i got a lil idea, you don't have to do it though of course if you don't want to!  
skipping way on to chapter six, maybe arthur could tell the reader of his sickness. one thing that annoyed me in the main story is nobody really noticed arthur's health get worse (except for micah and the npc's in the towns), and arthur never made an effort to tell anyone- excluding rains fall of course (i have played it once so excuse me if i'm wrong). the reader can be lover or friend, but i'd love to see your interpretation of arthur confiding such information to someone. it can be on his own terms or the reader takes notice of the disease, or even both. probably wouldn't request something so sad but it's one factor of the game i hate. i realise everyone in the gang had their own issues and arthur doesn't really make a fuss of himself to everybody else but it would still be interesting to have seen, y'know?

It nearly dawns on morning when your lover returns. Arthur's drained, shoulders slouched, scruff longer than he normally keeps it. Red stains the corners of his mouth. 

Blood. 

You dread to think about what he's done, seen, and been through in the past few hours — asking about it would be putting him through that torture all over again. Some things are better left unsaid, for his sake.

With a stifled cough into his sleeve and unsteady steps, he makes his way to your cot. It reminds you that whatever condition he's in, it's not only out of your control, but also not within your knowledge. Whatever he has, Arthur has refrained from telling you about it — and that doesn't bear any good news. The poor man has to brace himself against his caravan to not tip over from sheer exhaustion.

You sit up, smile at him gently. He's surprised, almost looks sorry to have disturbed you, but you interrupt his thoughts with a whispered 'hello' before his self-dread returns. You don't look angry, he realizes. Just relieved and happy. 

When you offer your hand as support, he refuses it, plops down beside you on his own.

"You didn't even take off your boots, cowboy." There's no sign of reproach in your voice, it's just an observation. The look on his face tells you he's well aware of that — but that he can't possibly muster the willpower to do anything other than lay down.

He's dead on his feet, working himself into the ground. You don't know for what exactly, and part of you fears he doesn't either. His loyalty to Dutch has ceased being unwavering, and yet he follows his leader blindly. You fear it's more out of habit than sensibility.

"I know, I just need a—" Arthur gets interrupted by another coughing fit, which he can't hold back anymore. "Just need a...second. Mayb' a minute."

You nod, understanding, then move to leave the bed. Tiptoeing comes naturally to you, even more so over the bearskin rug, to the other side of the tent. A washbasin, a washcloth and Arthur's water flask is all you need — not like you have many other things at hand anyways.

Driven by the sentiment of uselessness and the want to prove the opposite, Arthur moves to stand up with a groan. You return to the cot, set your palm on his shoulder. You won't risk applying pressure on his chest, even if it's the smallest of amounts — you've made that mistake before. 

"Sit back down for me, love." You tell him softly, and Arthur does, looking to the side to avoid your gaze. He's bashful about — for once — not being the provider in your relationship. He thinks of himself as a nuisance, that you know, and hope to one day change.

Part of you feels like there's not much time left.

You step closer, Arthur eases his knees apart to allow you to, one of his hands finds your waist. He lays his head atop your collarbone.

"Missed you." It's so quiet that only you can hear it. You brush some of the hair from his forehead, then lean down to place a demure kiss to his forehead.

"Me too." You admit with the most loving smile Arthur's seen. Part of him can't believe that that look is all for him, he's not worthy of everything he receives from you. And yet you treat him like he's worth pure gold, he's afraid he may never understand where that all comes from. 

Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, and deftly begin undoing them one by one. Arthur wants to help, but can't find the necessary dexterity to even hold one of the pesky little things between his thumb and index without it slipping from his grip.

You've undone his shirt before he's even worked through the three bottom buttons, your hands brush over his shoulders as you slip it off of him. His gun belt comes next, discarded with a few quick movements of your hands. It clatters to the ground and you push it aside with your foot. Next are Arthur's boots and jeans, he's left sitting on the edge of the cot in his union suit.

"Tell me how you're feeling." You encourage him as you fold his clothes into a neat pile, then return to his side with the washbasin and the rag. You dip the material inside the water, wring it out properly, then settle into your old position in front of him. "If you want to."

It's not unusual for Arthur to hesitate before he speaks. But now that his mind is sleep-addled, and he for once feels at ease, his thoughts are hazy at best. But you're patient, always are.

"Just fine. Lil' tired is all." He avoids your gaze as you take his chin in your hand, tipping it upwards. Arthur closes his eyes as you start wiping at his face gently, occasionally dipping the cloth back inside the basin to wring it out. 

"You'll get better." Concealing emotion in your voice has been, for quite long, one of your most treasured and well-developed skills, and yet, it's useless now. You don't know why you say what you say, but you want to cling onto whatever bit of hope you can find — and that's just human nature, you suppose. 

Arthur shakes his head, smiles bitterly. "Don't think so."

Up until then, you'd considered the word 'heartbreak' a mere hyperbole — how utterly wrong you'd been.

You can practically feel your chest being torn in two, and that's caused by nothing more than the hollow, wretched look Arthur's tired eyes.

"Of course you're gonna get better." You argue. Your knot feels like it's been just tied into a knot. Speaking hurts, but you do it anyways. Your palms cup his face, one hand on each cheekbone, and you look at him with that fire in your eyes he's grown to love. "Some dumb cold is nothing compared to what you've been through. All the gunshots, all the broken bones, all th—"

Arthur's hands grasp your forearms, slowly, ease your hands away from his face. The tears that start to form at the corners of his eyes scare you to death.

"I'm sorry." Arthur says. You shake your head. Sorry? What's he sorry for? Why— "I got...I'm..." Arthur stops to stifle a cough, but you can still hear it rumble in his chest. His palms slide up your arms until he's clutching your hands in his own. You intertwine your fingers. "I'm dyin'."

You can't form words, sentences even less so. Your whole world is crumbling right in front of your very eyes, and you're powerless to stop it. You can only squeeze his hands and swallow back your own tears.

"I got tuberculosis." Arthur adds with an air of finality, like he expects you to pack up your suitcase and leave him the next second. He's mistaken.

He breathes like he's holding back a cry, but you tell yourself that it must be from his disease. Arthur's never cried, in all the years you have known him, he has not cried once, not even in the most desperate of times.

When you move to sit on his lap and pull him in close, Arthur's arms wrap around your waist, tight as a vice. You feel his face nuzzling into the space between your neck and shoulder, where he used to tickle you with playful kisses months ago. Those days are long forgotten.

And then, when your frame is pressed to his, your fingers card through his hair and you press a kiss to his temple, Arthur sobs. It's silent, only the way his breath stutters and his shoulders twitch give him away. 

"Shh." You can't do much but whisper. To prevent your vision from fogging up, you press your eyes shut, but that doesn't help. Next thing you know, warm tears are spilling down your cheeks. It hurts, everything hurts from somewhere deep within. You're going to lose Arthur. The man you love. The man you hoped to spend the rest of eternity with, he'll be gone in a few weeks, if not quicker. "It's okay, love."

It's not.

But you hold him close like he matters, because he does. You trace circles into his back with your fingertips because he's the best thing to ever happen to you. You sob because he's dying.

You untangle from his arms and cup his face because, for once, he needs you, and not the other way around. You wipe at his tears then kiss them away because he's loved.

He's loved by you, always will be.

"I'm sorry." Arthur's gaze lowers almost shamefully, he takes one last stuttering breath before he turns away from you as much as possible, and coughs into his elbow. You pat his back, then retrieve the bottle of water you'd set down beside the basin.

Once his breathing becomes controllable once again, he takes the bottle from you and drinks. Blood stains the the inside of his elbow. You wait patiently, and ignore it.

He looks composed again, save for the wet trails on his cheeks, the remnants of tears, glistening like melted silver in the moonlight. It's admirable, really. Arthur's exhausted, practically dying, and yet, he's pulled himself back together.

You're the one that can't stop the tears from falling. It's pathetic, you think, how he's the one who has it so much worse, but you're the one bawling your eyes out.

In spite of all that, Arthur moves to stand, fights the sleep that creeps to him with an unmatched bravado. Both his hands, warm, big and familiar slide up your arms, over your shoulders, up your neck, settle on your jaw. He cradles your face with a gentleness no man, or human, for that matter, has ever mustered. "Hey, c'mere..."

You pull him into a hug so forcefully that he's left breathless. And for once, it's not his tuberculosis at fault.

"I ain't worth cryin' over, a'right?" He whispers, thumbs tracing circles into your back. "When I die, don't matter if that's tonight or in a month, you...you ain't gonna look back. You're gonna run n' save yourself." Arthur draws in a stuttering breath, then kisses your hairline. "Promise me."

You nod.

But on that awful night, when you find yourself running through the woods from pinkertons and, by some miracle, end up on a hilltop that overlooks the sunrise, you realize that you've made a promise you can't keep.

You've come back for him, one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! A big chunk of this whole chapter had actually been written a few months back. It was part of a fic I ended up scrapping, but I'm glad I ended up keeping it in my folders anyways. I only changed up some of the details a smidge and added some more to the scene, et voila!


	4. of ranchers and bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you find out that the best way to patch up an injured stranger is with sarcasm, jokes, and a tourniquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by a wonderful anon on tumblr, who said:  
Hi! I absolutely love ur stuff and saw you were doing requests 🤩 Could you write a fic/drabble where the reader is a rancher's daughter, and one night there's a noise in the barn and the reader goes out with a shotgun to find an injured YOUNGER Arthur stumbling around. After some initial distrust, she patches him up, and they begin to have a little tryst for weeks 👀 until Dutch and Hosea move on from that town and he has to bid her goodbye. If this idea doesnt inspire you at all that's okay!

It's not every night that the horses and livestock make such noise without a good reason. You hear the animals stirring all the way from your room, though you're the one that left the window open, so part of the blame is on you.

Sighing in annoyance (because it's one AM and as peaceful as any other night, what the hell is going on?) you get out of your bed and trot over to the window. Just as you're about to close it, you hear something that sounds anything but animalistic.

"God damn it!" A male voice, undoubtedly, but it's unfamiliar. The tone is just slightly above a whisper, but very much annoyed. Your entire frame tenses.

Perhaps your parents have hired someone new to help around the ranch? Possible, but what would a ranch hand do at one in the morning in the barn? They've got their own quarters on the other side of your father's property.

Most likely not a ranch hand, then. That makes you all the more curious.

You'd never considered yourself lucky when it came to the location of your sleeping quarters, mainly because you'd been the only one of your siblings cursed with the closest room to the barn. But then again, you have your own room, and you're the daughter to one of the most successful ranchers around, so maybe it's not all bad.

A light flickers inside the barn before it dies out.

Someone's definitely there.

You tiptoe out of bed, and grab your lantern and a sawed off shotgun on the way out. You don't bother with anything other than shoes and a shawl draped over your shoulders before you step out into the chilly summer night.

If it's a burglar, you're prepared, and if not, then you'll just return to your room. 

It's almost sad to realize that no matter what the outcome, you're looking forward to this nighttime adventure. Absolutely nothing of note has happened at the ranch in literal years — you're reduced to living off of small escapades such as this one. That and books.

You lean your shoulder against one of the doors, pushing lightly. It's dark and quiet inside.

Maybe you've been so starved for some excitement that you'd imagined it, or perhaps you'd dreamt about hearing something and woken up afterwards. How foolish of you. 

Light floods the room along with the sound of a match that's been stricken.

There's someone in there — a young man, maybe twenty, sat on top of one of the hay bales. He brings the match to his lips, catching it between clenched teeth as he looks down at his leg — he's been shot. The stranger sets aside the matchbox, digs through his satchel and pulls out bandages. Grunting in pain and frowning, he presses them to the gaping wound on his thigh, then applies as much pressure as he can.

And then his match burns out.

He whispers a string of cursewords, then lights another match seconds later, repeating the process from before.

When the bleeding won't stop, he draws in a desperate breath and runs a hand through his dark blond hair, staining it with blood. His face is pale, unnaturally so, even in the warm light of his match.

"You'll bleed out like that."

You don't know what exactly gives you the boldness to push the door open, but you see the fear on his expression when he scrambles to reach behind himself for a revolver.

He points it at you, pressing down the bandage on his wound with his other hand. 

"Leave." He drawls, match dancing between his lips as he speaks. 

"Don't think you're in any position to tell me to leave if you're in my barn." You answer, then gesture at the weapon he points at you with your own. "Put that down."

"'Your' barn?" He smirks, face pale from what, but gaze still quick, sharp and cocky. When he notices your lantern, he lets the dying match drop from his lips. "Drop the act, y'don't look a day over nineteen."

Well, he got you there.

"I've still got a gun and know how to use it." You take one step closer, he doesn't move.

"How bout y'go back to sleep n' I won't tell mommy 'n daddy you were out past your curfew."

You ignore his words, and glance around the barn. He won't shoot, he's, as he already said himself, well aware you're not the only inhabitant of this place. If he makes too much of a ruckus and, on top of it all, kills you, he's pretty much doomed. 

A horse that's unknown to you and has a saddle that's packed with weapons of all sorts stands in the back of the barn, carelessly eating away at the hay.

Come to think of it, you'd awoken much sooner if you'd heard a gunshot. Which means that this man in your barn, whomever he is, had been on the run until he got to your property. Wether it was on the run from the law or from some other attackers is something you cannot deduce. Lest you ask, of course.

"Who shot you?"

"What is this now, an interrogation?" His voice rises at the end of his sentence, betraying his smug, self-confident act. He's bleeding out and it's getting more and more difficult to hide it.

"I can help you, but if you won't cooperate, you're the only one that's got something to lose." 

He looks at you like he can't quite believe what you've just told him. It takes a second of silence or two, but the young man speaks. He'd never admit it, but he knows you're right.

"Teddy Brown's boys." He pauses, musters you with both curiosity and slight distaste. "But I reckon a princess like you don't know 'bout things like that."

"They're stationed in Fort Mercer, right?"

The young man nods. He's surprised, there's no hiding it. One of your brothers is a bounty hunter (much against your parents' wishes), and he often stops by to tell you about his journeys. But the stranger doesn't need to know that — it leaves you with a strange sense of pride that you've managed to impress him.

If it's some gang that attacked him, he may be some poor traveler that stumbled into their territory.

But judging by the weapons on his horse, that's unlikely.

A bounty hunter, too? Or maybe...

Your heart skips a beat at the realization that you could have an outlaw, an actual outlaw, in the flesh, right in your barn. It's almost as unbelievable as, say, finding king Arthur or a dragon in your kitchen. You only know stories about them, words, but to see someone that—

"You just gon' stare?"

You look back down at him, then shake your head quickly.

"No, no, wait...right here. I'll go get some supplies from inside the house." You stand up quickly, turn towards the exit. "Maybe don't make too much noise while I'm gone?"

He sighs. "You got it."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"I've got a belt, scissors, rubbing alcohol, and a lot of bandages, so I think we're all set here—" You stop in your tracks when you find the barn empty. You want to call out the man's name, but you realize you don't even know that. What are you doing? Helping out some stranger and for what exactly—

He rises from behind a hay bale somewhere further away from the entrance, and you see him store a stick of dynamite into his satchel.

He'd been prepared to strike back, just in case you did bring someone else with you, you realize. Whoever he is, he's got something to hide.

He slumps against one of stall doors when he stands upright, you approach him with newfound caution.

"You...you did jus' bring supplies." It's a statement, but a pleasantly surprised one. Something in his tone makes you want to give him a warm, soft smile as an answer.

So you do. "Of course."

You walk over to him and help him limp towards the closest tipped over hay bale, where you sit him down. When you reach for the scissors, his hand flinches towards his gun belt.

"I'm gonna need to get your clothes out of the way." You explain, then gesture at his injured leg. "Which means your pants'll probably be ruined. That a problem?" 

"I ain't the richest man on earth, but I got more than one pair o' jeans, princess." He grins and you huff in slight amusement. "Do what you gotta."

With that, you kneel beside him and begin cutting up the left pant leg at his ankle, going up all the way to his thigh. Once the material's peeled away from his thigh, you get the belt you'd stolen from one of your brothers' rooms and tie it around his leg tightly. Next, you bunch up a few bandages, place them on top of the injury, then press down with all your might. The outlaw winces, but doesn't say much else.

When his face doesn't start gaining in color, you realize you have to busy his mind with something, a conversation, or maybe a some simple mathematical questions to keep him alert. A mind that loiters is much more susceptible to falling unconscious. He might not be a fan of the maths, though, so you go for the safe bet.

"What's your name?" You ask, slightly out of breath from putting all your force into pushing down the bandages.

"Arthur." He winces out when you use your weight to press down with even more strength. If that doesn't stop the bleeding, you don't know what will.

"Arthur." You repeat, then start mentally counting to thirty. "I'm (y/n). Pleased to meet you." 

"Helluva way to meet." He jokes, in spite of it all, he jokes. It's admirable, you think. "How d'y'know all o'..." He nods at your hands atop his injury.

"We...breed cattle. Few years back, we had a bull that charged at everything and everyone in its path, a lot of the ranch hands got hurt. I had to..."

Arthur hums, understanding, then falls silent. He leans back on the hay bale, but you catch his gaze and keep talking.

"You're pretty bad at treating gunshots for someone that's got so many guns."

"Well," He says. "I'm a real good shot, so I don't gotta." Arthur notices your skeptical look. "Most of the time, at least."

After many, many years spent around your brothers, it's second nature to respond with sarcasm. "Look at that, he's humble too."

Arthur grins.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After stopping the bleeding, the rest is all smooth sailing. You help him find a place to sleep in your barn, even bring him some of your old blankets to accommodate his stay. Arthur asks when you consider it best he leave in the morning, and you suggest it be before four in the morning.

Part of you would have loved to talk to him for a little while longer, but judging by the way he looked, he needed rest more than anything else. So you offered watching over him for the two hours he would be spending there, and he agreed.

When the sky lightened up with the first rays of sunlight, you gently shook Arthur's shoulders, then helped him to his horse.

You'd expected him to run for the hills the moment he's mounted up, but instead, his gaze lingered on you.

You were about to think of a smart remark when he tossed something your way — small, thin and of a gorgeous golden with a white pendant — a necklace.

"For y'r troubles." Arthur explained with a smile. "Should bring in a pretty penny or two 'f you wanna sell it."

And with that, he rode off.

Days went by, and you never raised your hopes that he'd return, really. It'd just been one of those once in a lifetime encounters, and you had come to terms with that quite easily. But you still kept the necklace. You never truly understood why, until pebbles hit your window one night.

One fugitive glance outside your window confirmed what you'd been hoping for in the back of your mind for weeks. Arthur was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I...whipped this all out in one evening because I got a burst of inspiration, but it didn't turn out the way I wanted. It's much longer and blander than I'd hoped, but oh well. It's really unfortunate,(because the concept itself was good and I kinda feel like I wasted it?) but I figured I'd kept you all waiting long enough. Thanks for reading!


	5. of ranchers and bullets II

It's him. One peek out your window confirms it definitively, it's Arthur, the Arthur from a few weeks back, that cocky bastard that almost bled out in your barn. You could never forget such a visage, now generously revealed by his tipped back hat and the abundant moonlight. 

"Woulda been real awkward if that wasn't your window." You hear Arthur say the moment you peek outside. He's gathered a handful of pebbles in his left hand, and holds one between his right index and thumb, stopped just before throwing.

"What the hell—" You begin, but quickly correct your tone once you realize that whispering might be the wisest choice. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He huffs in amusement. His voice, however, adapts to the tone you've set, he must understand you're keeping quiet for a good reason. "That ain't the warm welcome I expected from the girl that saved my life."

You scoff. "Ah damn, I forgot the champagne and fireworks at the general store."

"No need." He smirks. "'M here to repay ya."

You raise a brow in confusion, lean more bodily against the windowsill. "Repay me?" You ask. "I thought that's what the necklace was for."

"Well..." He hadn't thought you'd answer that, it's obvious by the way he taps his fingers against his strong, stubbled chin. "That was for the...financial damage. Me bein' here, however—" He gestures at himself. "—is for...uuh...your, ehm, kindness."

He's quite delightful, you'll have to admit. Either that or he's at least more charming than some of the stablehands who've had a crush on you, though they're not exactly the fiercest of competition. 

"So?" He speaks up when he sees you hesitate, which makes you smile. There's only so much grandeur behind the confidence he likes to put on, but somehow, that makes him endearing. "You comin' down here or not?"

"As much as I wish I could," You pause, he takes half a step closer to your window. "My brother's returned home, just yesterday. He's a very light sleeper, if I start wandering around the house, he'll wake up for sure."

"Your brother?" Arthur scoffs, rests one hand on his belt. "C'mon, you're afraid of your brother? What's he even do for a livin', pick apples?"

"Hunt outlaws."

Another answer he hadn't expected, that's for sure. Even in the moonlight, you see his adam's apple bob before he regains his composure again.

"Alright, we can...figure somethin' else out, then. Somethin' that don't involve your brother."

"And what would that be?"

Arthur goes silent, and a few seconds go by. His mind is racing, you can see it all the way from up there.

"I got an idea." He sounds enthusiastic, almost, of having thought something up so fast. Arthur steps closer to the window, stretches out his arms towards you. "Jump."

You hold back a dry cackle. "As much as I like you, I don't have a death wish."

"C'mon, do you really think I'm gonna let the girl that saved my life fall to her death?"

You scoff. "At least not intentionally."

He looks at you like you've insulted him — not by a great deal, of course, but he's still taken a jab. He crosses his arms, raises his chin expectantly.

"Right, well, any other ideas, then, Rapunzel?"

You frown, look around. Sure, it'd be easier to just admit you don't have the slightest clue how to go about the situation, but you're not about to wave a white flag before you've at least tried your luck. 

And you do find an answer — so utterly simple that you feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.

"There's a ladder," You instruct. "In the back of the barn."

Arthur doesn't need to be told anything else, he's already jogging towards it.

He returns in a minute, carries the ladder to you with practiced ease, then props it against the side of the house so that it reaches your window. Arthur holds it upright with his foot, then lights a cigarette as he waits for you to climb down.

It's as easily said as it's done, you've climbed ladders countless times before. You are, after all, a rancher's daughter.

The moment you turn around to face him, he smirks. The cigarette hangs loosely from between his lips, a puff of smoke leaves his mouth.

"You still got it." He says. You frown, tilt your head at his words, so he clarifies with a nod at your collarbone. "The necklace."

Almost self-consciously, you clasp your hand around the pearly white pendant, then look him in the eye with fake confidence. "And what about it?"

His smirk only grows. "Nothin'. Just thought it was...unexpected. That ya didn't sell it, I mean."

You settle a hand on your hip, and he watches on with knowing amusement. "Don't get ahead of yourself. It's not like I had any opportunity to sell it." You tell him as you tuck the necklace inside the neck of your dress. He raises a brow, not quite believing, but listening to what you have to say nonetheless. "There's no jewelers around these parts, and we seldom go into town."

Silently, he takes the ladder and props it on his left shoulder easily. "Maybe I could take y'there someday, then."

No-one's ever left you feeling quite this bashful with just a few well-placed words, and Arthur, the smooth bastard, seems to pick up on that better than anyone. But you're not about to prove it to him so easily, so you keep your cool. 

"I'll gladly take any chance to get out of here." You smile, and Arthur takes another drag of his cigarette. He offers the pack to you as well, but you wave him off. 

A light inside the house flickers on, Arthur takes the ladder and props it on his shoulder out of instinct. You draw in a stuttering breath — shit, it's your brother's room.

He already makes his way back towards the barn, and you follow with hurried steps. He leaves the ladder where he'd found it, and you clasp your hand around his wrist the next second, tugging him with you. You guide Arthur into a cramped corner of the barn, where you used to hide as a child. Alas, the space is much smaller than you remember, but it does its job at keeping you concealed from prying gazes. You can feel Arthur's warm breath fan your neck, as you're pressed up against him, your hearts are racing with the same pace.

He looks down at you. From the way his smile shifts into something daring, you know there's an adventure to come. "How's exactly in a week sound?" His whispers so close to your ear it could render your legs to jelly. "I'll be here 'round the same time, come pick you up, we'll head into town."

You give a nod, mainly because your mind can't form words all of a sudden. Your chest and face feel unbearably warm. When your brother's steps fade into the night, Arthur helps you climb back into your room, then rides off. 

You're now sure that he's the adventure you'd been waiting for.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

This time, there's no pebbles. Arthur climbs up to your window all by himself and knocks. When you first see a silhouette outside your window, you have to hold in a frightened scream before you realize who it is.

But it's not a terrifying sight — if anything, it leaves you feeling warm with excitement for what's to come. Arthur's propping his elbow on the windowsill and smirking wolfishly when you open.

"Did I scare ya?"

You sigh, cross your arms. "It's not everyday someone knocks on my window, which, for your information, is on the second floor, Arthur."

He cackles and you can't hold back a smile of your own either.

"C'mon, princess. We don't got time to lose." Arthur starts to climb down the ladder. When the sound of boots on grass can be heard, you begin to climb out your window and downwards, into freedom.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, part of you can't believe this is happening. That you're finally doing one of the things you'd read about in some cheesy romance novel, that this isn't all a dream.

As you step on the ground, you feel Arthur's gaze lingering on you, heavy and warm in a way you can't pinpoint. 

He gives a low, quiet whistle of admiration. "Ain't you all dressed up."

While you are wearing one of your prettier dresses, it's a surprise that he noticed. And it's not like he hasn't put in some effort into his appearance either — he's wearing a white, almost perfectly clean shirt, buttoned all the way up, and there's traces of pomade on the strand of hair that slips out from under his hat.

"Well, I can't show my face in town looking like a scarecrow." You answer truthfully, then give a smile. "Not looking bad yourself."

That's when you discover his Achilles heel. When it comes to compliments, Arthur is done for by even the simplest of attentions, and you find yourself endeared.

"Ah— this—" He looks down at himself, then back at you. "It's nothing— I mean—" He clears his throat. "Thank you."

He nods for you to follow, and leads you to a mare you've never seen before. At least not properly — you recognize the rifles, however.

She's very pretty, of a chocolaty dark brown that glistens in the moonlight. Her black mane and coat are well-kept, she exudes an energy that's oddly calming. When you're close enough, she lifts her head slowly, ears perked.

"Hello." You coo, then lift your hand to let her sniff on it before you brush it over her snout. 

The mare closes her eyes and nuzzles your palm, you can't help but crack a smile.

"She's lovely." You tell Arthur, who comes up behind you. "What's her name?"

He hesitates for a moment, tugs her reins over the saddle horn before he speaks. "Boadicea." 

You're not exactly sure how to react. You'd expected something simple and classic like Brownie or perhaps Betty...but his originality is a pleasant surprise. Arthur lifts you up with ease, places you on the back of his horse before he saddles up as well. 

As you wrap your arms around his waist reluctantly, you feel Arthur tense. He hides it well, still holding the reins in only one hand, letting the other hang at his side loosely. It leaves you wondering just how often he'd concealed emotions up until now, all with the help of his straight face and relaxed demeanor.

"So, what'd you have in mind?" You ask. "To repay me for my — as you put it — kindness?"

Arthur spurs on Boadicea to a lively trot, then gives a shrug like he doesn't care. "One o' my — guess y'could call him a friend — is gonna perform at the local theatre tonight, he's a magician. He said he can get us some good spots up close, 'f you want."

Who would've thought he'd be such a gentleman in disguise? And to think he'd ended up in your barn by sheer chance — it makes you want to believe in fate.

"You're taking me to a show?" You ask, sounding a little more excited than intended.

Arthur simpers at you over his shoulder, seemingly pleased with himself and your reaction. "You ever been to one b'fore?"

You hum, searching your memories. "Yeah, no...well, only once. But I was very young back then. I bet you've had your fair share though."

Arthur shakes his head, his smile becomes soft. "Actually no. I've only known this magician for a few months at best, and I ain't one for cities."

"Well if that's the case, we can go somewhere else — I don't mind. As long as it's not back to my ranch."

Arthur shakes his head, stays on the road that leads to town.

"The things I do for pretty girls that save my life, miss (y/n)."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Arthur's friend, as you learn, is an aspiring magician called Josiah Trelawny, only twenty three — which makes him older than the both of you. The show takes place after midnight, since the theatre is booked until then, so it's amateurish at best, but it's a joy to witness. Josiah's commentary and improvisation when one of his fellow magicians mess up makes it all interesting enough to watch from time to time as you and Arthur chat under your breaths. It's only exchanged jokes at first, hushed quips, but soon enough, they turn into a full-fledged quiet conversation that takes place whenever his friend's show becomes a tad boring. 

By the time you exit the theatre, you're beaming like you haven't in years. Usually, you'd be terrified to death by the empty, dark city streets, but with Arthur by your side, they feel like the brightest, most welcoming place on earth.

"So, that's why I didn't show up sooner. The damn kid stole my hat." He's telling you about some twelve year old boy, John Marston, who joined him and his mentors (as you've noticed Arthur likes to call the two men that took him in when he was fifteen) a few months back.

You snicker. "You know, maybe he was just trying to be like you."

"Be like me?" Arthur raises a brow, then scoffs. "Like that's easy."

"Of course it is." You say, and cannot, for the life of you, get your grin off your face. You tiptoe to take his hat off his head, then place it on your own. "Now I just gotta put on a mean face, say something snarky, and — done!"

He laughs, heartily, genuinely, before he snatches his hat back from you. Arthur crosses his arms, looks you in the eye while he raises his chin, perhaps in an attempt to seem intimidating. "Like this?"

You nod and he huffs in amusement. 

Arthur stops in his tracks and you realize it's because you've reached Boadicea. A bittersweet ache unfurls in your chest, you realize tonight is coming to an end.

Arthur doesn't seem to share your sadness, he still has a goofy grin on his face as he helps you get on his horse.

Only when you're about halfway home and silent does he ask what's bothering you.

"Nothing, I just—" You're at a loss for words, even though it feels like you have so much to say. It doesn't help that Arthur's so close to you. "This was...probably the most fun I've had in months."

He glances your way, surprise on his face. "For real?"

"Yeah."

At first, you fear he's going to be judgmental of your boring lifestyle, perhaps pitiful, but what he says next surprises you. "Me too, 'f I'm bein' honest. Just didn't think you—" He looks downward first, then straight ahead, away from you. "Hell, I thought some stupid show ain't nothin' compared to what other men may have offered ya."

You frown. "What other men? The stablehands?"

Arthur shrugs. "I dunno, figured your daddy might've tried to marry ya off to someone already, or somethin'."

"Well, he did try, but..." You shake your head, then huff. "My family history's a bit...complicated. My mother ran away from home to be with my father, so they're not forcing me into anything when it comes to marrying. Staying home is another thing, though."

"God forbid their daughter have some fun." Arthur quips, then spurs on Boadicea when she slows at a river you're crossing. "Or worse, step out of the house!"

"You're an awful influence, do you know that?" You joke, then draw in closer to Arthur when the water splashes below Boadicea's hooves.

You can hear out the smile in his tone. "Been told so." 

Arthur falls silent, too, however this time, the quietness is comfortable. You rest your cheek between his shoulder blades at one point, tiredness creeping to you. 

It dawns on morning when you get home, you're sure there's not much time left until the stablehands wake. Arthur accompanies you all the way back to the ladder you'd left propped under your window.

Saying goodbye is difficult — you want to ask if you'll ever see him again, but another part of you fears you may have misinterpreted it all, and that he is never coming back and this all was just a one time thing and—

"Next week, same time?"

You turn around in surprise, leaving only one hand still on the ladder. He wants to see you again?

Arthur wants to see you again.

"Yes!" You say so eagerly that it shocks even yourself. "I mean — absolutely."

Arthur smiles, hooks his thumb around his belt. "Good, great. I'll...be there. Maybe b'fore midnight if John doesn't steal my hat again."

"Sounds perfect." Driven by god knows what, you take one quick, bold step closer, rest your hand atop his chest. Arthur looks at you like he doesn't understand a thing, and when you balance on the tip of your toes to plant a chaste kiss on his stubbled cheek, he looks even more dumbfounded than before. "Thank you for tonight."

The way up to your room is quick, so you risk one last glance outside. Arthur stands in front of the ladder, looking down, a wide smile on his lips. One of his hands is rested atop the cheek you'd kissed. Arthur stays in that position a second too long before he reaches for the ladder in a hurry and makes his way to the barn.

Next week, same time. You can't wait.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You can't even count up all the things you've seen in the past two months. The number of visits has increased, Arthur stops by twice, even three times a week, and with each new adventure by his side, he's starting to feel more like home than your actual home.

He takes you everywhere to try everything, ranging from hunting coyotes to stargazing, Arthur has something fresh and exciting in mind for each time you meet up. You're suddenly becoming the protagonist of every romance novel you've ever read.

One warm summer night when he takes you to the river, you kiss him. You're holding your dress up as you're treading through the calf-deep water, Arthur's rolled up his jeans up to his knees. One second you're spashing each-other with water, the next you've let go of your dress, wrapped your arms around his neck, and smash your lips against his. It's childish at best, playful in every sense of the word, but it's heaven. You find your place in the world: in Arthur's arms.

Another time, you almost get caught by your housemaid, so you're forced to hide Arthur in your wardrobe. You don't know how you manage to keep a straight face back then, because every time Arthur mentions it afterwards, you're both dying from laughter.

He teaches how to fish, you lend him your favorite book. Arthur tells you about his gang, his wretched childhood, you tell him about your dreams, darkest fears, and everything in-between. A constant exchange of affection and letting oneself be vulnerable in front of the other is what strengthens your bond.

As per usual, you expect him one night, knees drawn to your chest as you sit on your bed, waiting for something — anything. But there's no pebbles, there's no knocks on your bedroom window, no whispers, nothing.

Arthur doesn't show for the next four weeks. Part of you fears he's been injured once again, perhaps killed, and you realize how powerless you are when it comes to the fact that he's an outlaw. There's no guarantee for his return, your relationship is built on unsteady ground. Arthur could die any second, and chances are, you'd never know.

You're sick with worry for a month, barely eat, barely sleep, wait for his return. Often, you wake to the sound of leaves or raindrops against your bedroom window, thinking — praying — it might be him, but it never is.

By the time you hear three knocks against glass, you fear you might have gone crazy once and for all. You're even more sure of it when you hear his voice, but you rush to the window nonetheless, pry it open like your life depends on it, and find Arthur.

He looks awful, almost as terrible as the night you'd saved him, save for the blood. He's been as restless as you, his clavicle stands out almost unnaturally — he hasn't eaten much either.

There's no hello, no utterance of your name, only an earnest, genuine: "I'm so sorry."

You surge forward, wrap his arms around his shoulders in a hug.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"The law, and another gang — my mentor, he killed the brother of another gang leader, and now he blew the whistle on us." You hug him closer, he leans in. "The law's breathin' down our necks, I— We— We had to run. All the way to New Austin."

You feel your lungs drain and stomach drop. "New Austin? That's—"

Arthur pulls away. He can't bear to look you in the eyes, his gaze is downcast.

"Not exactly close. I know."

You know what that means. He won't be around anymore, whatever you had, it's coming to a brusque and brutal end.

You found your place in the world and it's being ripped away from you.

"Take me with you." You say.

Arthur cups one side of your face, bites his lip, shakes his head bitterly. "I can't— I'd never forgive m'self if I...took ya with me n' you, you died or got kidnapped or worse."

"I'd rather do that than stay here and—"

"No." Arthur draws in a shaky breath, settles both his hands on your shoulders. "No. I want you here, safe 'n alive."

You want to argue, tell him that you'd rather die by some criminal's hands than rot away in the prison of your own house, but when he looks at you so demurely, lovingly, you can't say anything.

"Please, sweetheart."

"So, this is a goodbye, then, Arthur? Is that it?"

He shakes his head no, tells you that the second he can come back to be with you, he will.

So you leave it at that. He stays the night, one last time, then rides off in the morning.

And you wait. For one, two, three, four, five, ten, fifteen years, you wait. You get married to some other man, have kids, but you wait for his return, even after fifteen years, you still await Arthur's return.

When you're at the verge of giving up hope, he returns. Arthur returns in the form of a stranger with dark hair and a huge scar on his face. It's John Marston, the kid that had admired Arthur all those years back. And John brings the news you'd dreaded to even think about hearing fifteen years ago.

Arthur Morgan is dead. His last wish? That John seek you out and tell you everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned a LOT longer than expected, but I went for the ending anon suggested in their request — maybe even sprinkled in some more angst. I'm sorry.


	6. what you’ll do to me tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a party can’t end soon enough.

His mouth presses against yours — searching, wanting, hungry. Your mind buzzes with champagne as Arthur's tongue brushes over your lips. You cup his jaw and draw him in, closing the door to his apartment behind yourself with your foot.

In the way his hips cant against yours and how he leans into you it's painfully obvious how starved he is. How long he'd been waiting; dreaming about this. About you. His frame curls against yours, he's warm.

You revealed just a smidge too much in that breathtaking dress, he couldn't help himself. Your skin glistened with the thinnest sheen of sweat, all because that stupid event room had the worst air conditioning imaginable. You'd just gotten lucky with the chilly autumn air that did a decent job at combating the heat inside.

How a place that looked so fancy missed one of the most bare necessities is still beyond Arthur, but he won't complain. You did, after all, accompany him back home. That's more than enough of a reward for the trouble.

Besides — you looked positively ravishing like that.

"Never goin' to one of 'em dumb parties..." Arthur's breathless, his words are hot against the skin of your neck. His dialogue bleeds into a wanton kiss to your jugular, you tingle all over. "...ever again."

You laugh airily as he hoists you up against himself, wrap your arms around his neck. His legs are numb from all that standing around at Dutch's idiotic party and the alcohol, but the will to carry you to his bedroom is something he can always muster.

Arthur kicks off his shoes as he stumbles down the hallway, you work at his tie, which proves to be a difficult task for a wine-addled brain.

He laughs against your collarbone at your attempts, but keeps to himself otherwise. You appreciate that.

"I quite liked seeing you all riled up like that." You answer in response to his prior statement, looking down at him with a wicked smile as he kicks the bedroom door open. You card your hands through the hair at the nape of his neck. That's always guaranteed to leave him at your mercy for a good few seconds. "You're so pretty when you blush."

Arthur sets you on the bed, makes quick work of discarding your heels before he crawls up to you again. He feels like his body was made to fit between your thighs. And it's those little discoveries that made him fall for you so deeply and helplessly. God, if you knew how tightly you had him wrapped around your little finger — Arthur can't decide if he desperately wants to know what you'd do or if he's terrified.

So he decides it's a detail best left unsaid. Unlike the commentary he's planning to make about your attire at the party, which rolls off his tongue before he can even think his words through.

"Not my fault that dress fits you so." He presses a kiss to your jaw. "Damn." One to your neck. "Well." One to your collarbone, long, languid and ravenous. His kisses can send even the most lucid of thoughts into a frenzy.

He's kind enough to help you undo his tie, thank goodness. You slip it away from his neck, let it glide through your hand as you look at it. Arthur stops to glance at you in a way that's questioning, but you shake your head as you discard the tie.

Not tonight. He's proven his patience, and so have you, there's no need to restrain anything or anyone.

Arthur shrugs off the black suit that hugged his shoulders so perfectly. You can't be bothered to wait, and make quick work of the white shirt underneath as well. What a masterpiece he is.

"I'm impressed." You tell him with a chuckle as you smooth your hands down his naked chest. Arthur hums, both to question what you mean and because he can't hold back a sound of appreciation at your touch. It's been a week, but he needs this. Needs you. Not that you're any different, but that won't stop you from poking fun at him. It's about as enjoyable as the term itself implies, after all. "That you managed to hold out until we got to your place."

"Real funny." He teases riggt back, fumbling with the zipper of your dress. "Like you weren't the one with your hand on my thigh in the taxi."

Touché.

The dress is finally, finally off. Arthur undoes your bra with practiced ease next, and you wrap your legs around his hips.

"Well, I stand by what I said — a blush looks good on you." You tell him as he kisses the top of your breasts. You grind against him, bodily and boldly now. A stuttered breath leaves his lungs at that, you sigh in pleasure. "And the best part is it's so easy to get you flust—"

He smashes his lips against yours, he tastes like the liquor you'd been too reluctant to order. It's perfect, leaves your mind fuzzy and chest warm as his tongue traces over your lower lip.

"Jus' shut up." He drawls into the kiss, sliding one hand down your side. You grin against his lips, catching the lower one between your teeth.

Arthur's breath stutters, but his hand is unwavering as it reaches your naked waist.

"You'll have to make me."

By god, his smile could make the angels sing and he'd never know it. Arthur's more than glad to take you up on your challenge: his hand slides under your panties, his lips find that spot just below your ear that makes you squirm.

"A'right." He purrs, watching you bite your lip as his fingers dip lower, lower. "Let's see if I can make y'scream instead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and Diatribes by Hozier started playing while I was studying for chemistry, so...here we are.


End file.
